I, Claudia

by Charity Bishop

  Resentment hardens his gaze. “It’s nearly the Sabbath. They must be dead before then.”

  Demetrius looks at him in contempt, and nods at his men. One of them picks up a club and strides toward the nearest thief. The sickening crunch as his legs break makes me turn away.

  “This man is dead, Captain.”

  Jacob snarls, “Make certain of it!”

  Picking up a spear, Demetrius hesitates and then drives it into Jesus’ side. He draws out the tip and water sprays into the wind. It hits Jacob and he screams, clawing at his face. He falls to the ground, writhing. Quintus drops to his knees and pulls free his hands. His palms and skin are red, raw, and blistering. “I can’t see!” he shrieks. “I can’t see!”

  Libi cries out; I cover my mouth in shock. She tries to calm him there, in the blood and sand under the cross. I come to my senses. “Get him to his feet! We’ll take him with us!”

  “No! Where are you taking me?” Jacob strikes at them. It is all Quintus can do to keep him from reeling down the hill. I retrieve his father’s staff from the rocks. Gripping his arm, his sister says, “Trust me, brother! I won’t let you fall.”

  He calms and we find our way to the road. The darkness lifts into gloom. Jerusalem is quieter than ever. No one operates the gates but they are open and we pass into the city. All the windows are closed and I sense a prevailing fear. We see only a few people on our way to the palace, one of them looking behind him as if fearing an enemy will loom up out of the darkness. Even the temple torches are out. Inside the palace, our servants are nowhere in sight. Two men wait in the judicial court.

  Repressing a shiver, I look into Libi’s terrified face. “Take him upstairs and tend to his eyes. I will find a physician. Quintus, help her.”

  Stooped under his weight, Quintus takes him away. I lean the staff against the wall and seeing movement out of the corner of my eye, start. I relax as Pilate emerges from the shadows.

  “Jacob got injured at Golgotha.” My voice is quiet, distant. “He can’t see.”

  Pilate is surprised but asks nothing as he holds out a scroll. One of the men in the outer room hurries to accept it. “Thank you, Prefect.”

  “See to it he’s buried by nightfall.”

  Bowing slightly, they disappear into the gloom. I avoid looking at my husband. “I must find a physician.”

  He catches my arm to stop me and gently, turns my chin to meet his gaze. “Say what you think. Tell me you’ve never hated me more, that what I did today is unforgivable.”

  I feel anger but not hatred, anger for those who did this to the messiah. Torches flicker around us. Emotion fills my voice. “When they nailed him to the cross, he said, ‘Forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.’ He forgave all of them, including you. That is the man you let be crucified.”

  His voice stops me in my flight through the hall. “What is truth, Claudia?”

  I glance at him.

  “Rome says truth is one thing, your messiah another. He might have spoken to me, told me his version of the truth, but he remained silent.” Pilate moves toward me. “So what is the truth?”

  “You saw the truth in prison and on the steps, when you spoke with him. The messiah is the truth.”

  He shakes his head. “He is dead. Gods can’t die.”

  “But can a mere man look into your soul and know you? Isn’t that how you felt when you met him?” I press his palm to my heart. “You know the truth, Lucius.”

  Shadows stir and Demetrius enters the hall. Pilate slips free of my grasp. “Is it done?”

  “Yes, Prefect, I gave them the body as instructed.”

  My husband nods. “Put two guards on the tomb.”

  Bare feet slip silently along the hall and a servant girl says, “Mistress, will you come? Libi asks for you.”

  As I pass an open arch, I see the first star in the sky. The bells never rang to announce the Sabbath. Libi awaits me in the corridor outside her room. I send for a physician and he soon arrives. Quintus holds Jacob as the physician pries open his eyelid to look. His eye is milky white and oozes pus. It smells of rotten meat. Jacob jerks away from him and the physician gives me a skeptical look. “You say this happened in the last few hours?”

  Offended at his implication, I snap, “Yes!”

  “This is an infection that takes years to fester.”

  Lifting my chin, I ask coldly, “Do you call me a liar?”

  The physician is not stupid. “No, Lady Claudia, but I’m not sure what I can do to help. He will never see again. The infection is too serious. He may even die.”

  Passing me, Libi takes her brother’s hand.

  “I’ll give him some ointment but…” The physician shrugs. I motion for him to proceed. Jacob moans as we make a thick white poultice with water and medicine, smear it onto a strip of linen, and tie it over his eyes. He resists the tincture we offer him.

  “It’ll help you sleep. It’ll dull the pain.”

  “Take it away,” Jacob growls.

  I hold out my hand for it and the physician leaves. I pass it to Libi and she stirs it into a cup of wine. “Take wine, then, brother,” she says. He feels for the glass and drinks. I quietly enter the hall with Quintus.

  “I don’t understand it,” he says. “The messiah wouldn’t blind a man, surely?” Shadows lurk around us. Quintus looks as tired as I feel. He touches the side of my face. “You must sleep. Try not to think of today.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  His smile turns sad and I leave him there. My feet grow heavier with each step. Pilate awaits me in our room. Avoiding looking at him, I shut the door and go to the bed.

  “What did the physician say?”

  Tired fingers unlace my sandals. “He can do little. Jacob may die of infection.”

  I drop the sandal to the floor and stare at my hands. Pilate crosses the room but avoids touching me. “I’m sorry, Claudia. I wanted to save him.”

  “But you lacked the courage.”

  My eyes lift. I want it to hurt him, and it does. Tormented, Pilate leaves the room. I let him go, not wanting him in my bed, unable to bear the arms of the messiah’s murderer around me, not tonight.

  I cry myself to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Claudia, get up!” Libi shakes me awake in the dawn. I turn over and she throws a cloak at me. “Come with me!”

  My eyes are raw and emptiness fills me. “What is it?”

  She pulls me from bed and drapes the cloak around my shoulders. “I can’t say; you must see for yourself.”

  I follow her outside barefoot. We meet no resistance in passing through the side gate into the street. Libi takes my hand and leads me into the temple, which is quieter than it should be, without a sign of anyone. She hurries toward the inner chamber.

  “Libi, I can’t enter there, you know that!”

  Her eyes are alive with fear. “It won’t matter! Come!”

  Fearfully, I follow her inside and stop in shock. A tear divides the curtain separating worshipers from the holy place. It hangs limply, the rich brocade moving faintly in the breeze. I can see past it to the altar. Cracks run along the floor, the braziers overturned, charred marks staining the stone. I drop to my knees.

  “I came to pray for my brother and found it like this.” Libi clutches her veil as she moves forward. “He’s gone, Claudia. Jehovah has gone from this place.”

  “Where are the priests?”

  She touches the curtain. “They must have fled. My brother is not the only one punished.”

  The room is cold. I muster the strength to rise and grip her arm. “Libi, we must go.”

  No one stirs in Jerusalem but fear is in the air. It lasts throughout the day and into the night. Passover is upon us and the priests return. Jacob worsens. I sit with him awhile to relieve Libi, listening to him moan and feeling him twitch in his sleep. I put a hand over his heart. The door creaks open behind me. Libi sits a cup of water on the shelf beside him, her eyes red from c
rying. “You must dress for the banquet.”

  Each year Jews celebrate Passover and the centurions dine with the governor and his wife. I let Libi dress me and put up my hair. Pilate awaits me in the hall. “You look beautiful,” he says.

  My hand falls into his but I stay silent, unforgiving.

  Our centurions are sullen and withdrawn. We drink wine and share conversation, none of us in high spirits. The jailer leaves earlier than the rest, after sharing harsh words with a companion.

  “Surely this dismal mood isn’t for the messiah?” asks another. “One man went to death on a cross! But never fear, my friends, if he is the messiah, the Jews tell me he’ll rise again!” He laughs and others with him.

  I bite into a grape.

  “Is that what they say?” Pilate asks.

  The centurion holds out his cup for a refill. “Yes, three days after the crucifixion the dead will rise.”

  “Or the body be stolen in the night,” Demetrius says.

  Pilate asks, “You posted guards at the tomb?”

  “Yes, Prefect.”

  “Then there’s no reason for concern.”

  I turn to him, “Unless he is the messiah.”

  Downcast eyes stare into cups and hands fall from platters. Even the servants stare at the floor. Pilate considers me at length. “No man can cheat death.”

  “He’s already cheated death. They say he resurrected Lazarus when he’d been in the tomb several days, and he breathed life into a little girl in Capernaum.”

  A boy enters the room and speaks in Demetrius’ ear.

  “You’ve seen such tricks in Rome.”

  Smiling, I retort, “Not that lasted more than an hour. Yet Lazarus is still among us, a year later.”

  Tension flickers between us and Demetrius slips out the side door. Pilate motions the boy forward. “What happened?”

  “Your jailer is dead, Prefect, impaled on his sword.”

  In shock, we stare at one another.

  “How did it happen?”

  Glancing at the others, the boy lowers his voice. “He fell on it, Prefect… intentionally.”

  “You may go.” Pilate waves him off and relieved, the boy hurries to his duties.

  My appetite is gone. I swirl the wine around in my cup. Pilate says, “I know what you’re thinking. It isn’t true.”

  “Your jailer scourged Jesus and died. Jacob mocked him on the cross and fell blind. Take care what you say of him, Lucius.” I rise and the men stir. “Thank you, all, but I must say goodnight.”

  The stillness over Jerusalem stirs at dawn with a second earthquake. It shakes the house faintly and soon fades into nothing. Shivering, I pull a wrap on and go in search of Libi. My sandals echo on the tiles. I round the curve of the wall and collide with someone coming up the stairs.

  I scream.

  He catches me before I can fall. “Claudia!”

  “Don’t touch me!” I kick him and scramble across the stone floor. I cover my face with my hands and he gently pries them free. His hands feel warm.

  “Claudia,” he says softly, “it’s me.”

  “No, you’re …”

  Avram smiles at me. “I’m here now.” He kisses my hands. He does not feel like a ghost.

  I touch the side of his face. “How has this happened?”

  “He cried out to us in the earthquake. The stones rolled free and we emerged from our tombs.”

  My arms go around him, so tight I can barely breathe. “Tell me this isn’t a dream!”

  “It isn’t. He’s arisen, my child… the messiah lives!” He pulls me to my feet. “There are many of us to proclaim it in Jerusalem: the voices of Abraham and David, Moses and Elijah, those who lived and died and serve a greater purpose. In a day our prophecy will be done and we’ll return to death, but for now we proclaim he lives!” Cradling my face in his broad hands, he says, “Take me to my son. I must speak with him.”

  “Do you know what happened to him?”

  The wonderful brown eyes soften. “Yes, show me.”

  We pass downstairs and I open the door to Libi’s room. She starts from her chair and backs into the wall, covering her mouth with her hand as her father enters. “Don’t be afraid, my child… you’ll know all in time.”

  I put my arm around her and draw her closer. “It’s him!”

  Trembling hands reach out to embrace him and a sob chokes from her throat. On the bed, Jacob stirs. “Who’s there? Who is it?”

  His father slides the bandages from his eyes, milky white and unseeing. “It is I, my son,” he says.

  Jacob half sits up at the familiar voice. “Father?”

  “Yes.”

  Hazy eyes widen in horror. “No! What deviltry is this? You’re dead!”

  “Am I?” Avram grips his hand.

  Scrambling away from him, Jacob knocks over the table. He falls in a heap in the corner, holding his hands out before him. “Stay away from me! I don’t know how you’re here, but it’s the work of evil!”

  “It’s the work of the messiah.” Avram kneels before him, grabbing him by the shoulders. He shakes him fiercely. “And you will listen to me! This blindness is of your own making! He told me. I heard his voice in the depths of the earthquake. He sent each of us to prophecy to those we left behind. Libi believes in him but you, my son, you spat on him, you hated him, you mocked him… and you’re punished by your own guilt!”

  Jacob kicks at him. “Let me go!”

  “You must endure darkness to find the light! Repent, Jacob! Repent and acknowledge him as the messiah!”

  Libi covers her mouth, shivering against me. Avram takes his son’s hand and presses it against his chest. “Feel my warm flesh, my beating heart! I live! I live so that you might know that he is God!”

  Sunlight pours in the window, falling over Jacob. His expression changes and he touches Avram’s face with a trembling hand. “It is you, isn’t it, Father?”

  Their heads rest against one another. Tears flow. “It is I,” Avram whispers. “Believe in him.”

  Great, choking sobs wrack Jacob’s muscular body. Avram opens his arm for his daughter and Libi goes to him. They embrace and weep together. I leave them and lean against the cold stone column in the hall. Rapid footsteps come along the passage. One of my servants catches sight of me and hurries forward. She shrieks, “They’re outside the gates… shouting…”

  Catching her hand to calm her, I ask, “Who?”

  “Ghosts! The dead walk among us!” She bolts into her room and slams the door. I run up the narrow stairs and emerge in the main hall. From the nearest window, I see eerie, luminous faces pressing against the gates.

  “Unusual, aren’t they?” I jump at the sound of Pilate’s voice. He joins me. “Our servants believe them ghosts.”

  Guards hurry out to force them away, shoving open the gate to disperse them in the street. They scatter, still shouting in Hebrew. “What are they saying?”

  He frowns. “They accuse me of killing the messiah.”

  The crowd disperses and their voices fade. Pilate walks toward his office. “For all their faith in their god the Jews are certainly a superstitious lot—ghosts?” He snorts and rounds the corner.

  Avram stands before us. “We’re not ghosts,” he says. Shock holds Pilate in place. The old man approaches. “You’re a man of common sense, Pilate. Even as a boy, you wanted proof. Here, it stands before you. I live for this day because the man you put in the ground, the man we all put in the ground with our unbelief, lives.”

  “What trickery is this?” Pilate looks at me.

  “It’s not trickery, Pilate. I stand before you. Take your sword and drive it through my chest if you want proof. If I must die again to convince you, so be it.”

  I dart forward as his hand closes on the hilt of his sword. “Don’t!”

  Pilate steps forward. “You want me to believe this is the work of Jesus of Nazareth? He is dead. I killed him.”

  “You had nails driven into his hands but
you didn’t kill him for he isn’t dead. Death has no power over the Son of God. I know you, Pilate. You’ll believe whatever lie suits you, such as the one carried on the lips of Caiaphas, who now asks for an audience in your courtyard.”

  A servant appears. “Prefect…”

  “Who is it?”

  The boy bows his head. “It’s high priest Caiaphas.”

  “I’ll see him in a moment.”

  Returning his attention to Avram, Pilate asks, “What lie will he tell me?”

  “Jesus’ body was stolen in the night. He’s bribed your guards to lie for him.”

  I rub the chill from my arms. Pilate does not answer but continues to his inner courtyard. I take Avram’s warm hands in mine. “Must you go?”

  “Yes, there are others I must speak with.” My evident disappointment softens his expression. He smiles and kisses my forehead. Cradling my face in his palms, he says, “Have faith, Claudia. No dream foresees all ends. Now go to your husband.”

  I enter the courtyard several paces behind Pilate. He and Caiaphas regard one another with contempt before he turns to his guards. Both drop to one knee and one says, “Prefect, we failed our task to guard the tomb where the King of the—”

  “—where the Pretender lay,” injects Caiaphas, pale and with tired lines under his eyes.

  Pilate glares at him and motions to the guard. Staring at his feet, the centurion says, “We stood watch all night but fell asleep before dawn. While we slept they removed his body, leaving the stone rolled aside and the burial garment on the floor.”

  Silence echoes in our ears. Pilate crosses to his chair and sits down. “Why are you here, Caiaphas?”

  “Some claim no theft took place!”

  Tapping his fingers on the armrest, Pilate asks, “And they say… what, that he arose from the dead?”

  Caiaphas scowls. “Yes.”

  “I see.” Pilate indicates his men to rise and approach. “Centurion, did Jesus rise from the dead?”

  “No, Prefect, they stole his body in the night.”

  He nods. “The tongues of Jerusalem wag idly, then?”

  The centurion glances at me fearfully. “Yes, Prefect.”